The Generation of Peace

Dark, dreary clouds blanket the sun. Dust piles on the cracked sidewalks. The light poles are bent and rust-red from age. Thirty years ago, the rebels tore our city apart. They wanted a new regime. They left the government house crippled and deserted. Legend says that the city was painted almost red that night. The police forces could not hold back the mob. Many of our loved ones were killed in the fighting. The beautiful city garden we all built as a symbol of peace lay crumpled and crooked. The roses wilted, the daisies ripped from their stems — it was as terrible to the flowers as it was to us. We were all forced, as laborers, to live in this cruel place, never to lift the stormy gray blanket up and see what was really out there.

However, the battle was far from lost. We fought against the chains locking our hearts. Your mother was one of the few to bring hope to our people. She told us that if we didn’t believe in the possibility of escaping our imprisonment, we would never be able to achieve freedom. However, if we believed that we could escape in our hearts, there would be a ray of sunlight peeking through the thick mist at us. Her words gave spirit to the people, and we were united in our freedom.

Although we had obtained hope, escaping was still a difficult task, considering the enemy traps, the hundred guards outside our labor camp, and the superior weapons they possessed. However, we were all fighting for a goal — freedom, while they had no united goal in mind. With rakes, shovels, and axes in hand, we fought desperately for independence, overwhelming the guards, who were too confused and shocked to retaliate easily. Casualties were high — many of our people perished in the battle, but we kept moving. We were already one step closer to liberation.

Shadows danced in the flickering, fiery torchlight as we made our way out of the labor camp. Mines and punji sticks had taken another twenty of our army, yet we had made it out of enemy territory! Our people traveled mountain over mountain, to a faraway land where the rebels would never find us. But a sense of safety has never settled in our hearts. Maybe you, my boy, will be one of the first of a new generation that will release the doves from their cage, crack the iron shackles around the lotus flower of serenity, and peace we need to our people.